Bow Down to No Man
by Carleen
Summary: Known as Randall Aiken by the colonists of Vodin, Spartan II, Randall-037 is content and happy as a respected member of their community. As time goes by, he forgets things have a way of changing. Forgets things always change and perhaps happiness was never his to claim.
1. Bow Down to No Man Chapter 1

TITLE: Bow Down Before No Man

CHAPTER: 1

AN: Thanks and Spartan Smiles to FlashDevil for the plot ideas. However, I take full responsibility for any changes in canon, timeline and the fact Jun and John wouldn't know each other. A timeline, which to me is more difficult to track than an algebra problem. So just enjoy... Maybe, it'll be a good story. Thanks for dropping by.

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><p><strong> "<strong>To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven: A time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted; A time to kill, and a time to heal; a time to break down, and a time to build up; A time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance; A time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones together; a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing; A time to get, and a time to lose; a time to keep, and a time to cast away; A time to rend, and a time to sew; a time to keep silence, and a time to speak; A time to love, and a time to hate; a time of war, and a time of peace." —Ecclesiastes 3 King James Version (KJV)

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><p>If he keeps his eyes focused on the infant in his arms, he won't see the raw earth piled next to the grave or smell the dank, cold stench of death creeping up from the dark hole. People weeping quietly surround him, their emotions threatening to smother him with their need. The odd line of his white dress shirt and black suit around his wrist feels strange and restrictive. He flexes his large hands over the infant and holds her closer.<p>

Overhead, birds call from trees fresh with the new growth of spring. The smell of freshly mown grass and roses close his throat with a cloying perfume. The wildflowers she loved tempt him to look up as they bow and sway in the light breeze. This is exactly the kind of day his Lara loved. He swallows hard, that dark pit is not the place for her. The baby begins to fret, so he retrieves the pacifier and she accepts it impatiently.

The scarred, work-worn hands that hold his daughter so lovingly remind him of days past. He'll never forget the long and often brutal days fighting alone or with a team of Spartans. He'd lived his life on the battlefield and slept in the frozen blindness of cryo sleep. He is no longer that man. He will never stop thinking of himself as a soldier, but in his heart, he is no longer a Spartan. Those were the days before he'd learned the love of a woman or the tender scent of a newborn. Although, there are things he's still not accustomed to, he is proud to have found his place in this community.

The priest says something to him he doesn't catch. The man's been droning on and on for thirty minutes. What do his words, or any words matter now? They will not bring her back. What can replace the smile that was just for him, the warm body that soothed away the nightmares and the hands that caressed away the pain? Nothing can replace the woman who gave up her life to give him this beautiful little girl staring up at him so innocently.

He focuses his eyes on the man suddenly standing in front of him. Only because the priest just called him by name. He wishes they would all just disappear, but they won't because his wife has family here on Vodin and he is following their wishes.

"Mister Aiken?"

He remembers what he's supposed to do now and walks slowly to the graveside. The bouquet of wildflowers he'd forgotten about fall from his fingers into the grave. It's an empty gesture at best, but it's what her family wanted. They expect him to say a few words, but there is nothing he can say to her now that he has not said before. And Lara can no longer hear him when he tells her how beautiful their little girl is and how much she changes almost hour by hour.

Three days ago, a smiling nurse handed him the infant and he'd held her up for his wife to see. Their eyes met over the squalling and kicking new life they'd created and he'd never known such a perfect moment of happiness. Then something changed in her eyes, he'd watched it with growing confusion. The medical staff began to move very quickly, while the smile on her face turned to fear, then terror. Their moment of joy, replaced with anxiety.

The last words he heard from his wife were, 'let me hold my baby'. Then her outstretched arms dropped to the bed. Had she even heard him say, I love you, before the medical team shoved him out of the room. She hadn't been able to hold her daughter before they made him leave. There he stood outside the door, listening to frantic shouting of the medical team.

An hour later, the doctor walked out of the delivery room. Her surgical gown bloody and her cap soaked with sweat. She hadn't needed to tell him anything, he already knew. The specter of death had been his companion for many years. He thought he'd left it behind, but it had found him again. His daughter screamed and writhed in his arms.

They beckoned him into the room where his wife lay silently on fresh clean sheets. One of the staff had taken the time to smooth her hair back from her face. After the rigors of childbirth, she appeared so calm and peaceful. The animated expression is gone, the smile and her laughter. The wonder in her eyes when she placed his hands on her belly as she told him about the pregnancy.

Somewhere in the background, the doctor said something about hemorrhaging. How sorry they were at their inability to save her. The baby was a healthy girl.

He had done this to her. He'd gotten her pregnant and he had killed her. That had been thirty-six hours ago. He'd endured three long days of family and friends trying to comfort the grieving father. Now he must say a final goodbye to this plain wooden box, which inexplicably holds his the body of his dead wife. There hadn't been enough time for him to understand the miracle of their lives together and now she is gone.

When he's ready and when he can, Randall Aiken steps into the crowd of mourners to hide the grief he can no longer control. They offer what solace they can to the tall silent man who literally fell into their lives and became such a valued member of their community. For ten years he'd lived with them and helped them recover from the Covenant attack. Ten years of peace and quiet and contentment.

"I'll always take care of you," he whispers into the soft scent of her pink blanket. She's barely three days old, her name is Natalie and she's the daughter of Spartan Randall-037.

After a few moments of watching his daughter contentedly sucking on her pacifier, his brother-in-law lays a hand on his shoulder and nods toward a stand of trees. He follows the man's gaze to the sight of two men crossing the grass, between headstones, toward the graveside. They are very tall and very familiar and — _bloody hell _— have no reason to be here.

His daughter begins to cry when his hands convulse around her small body.

The priest raised his hands over the crowd, "Peace be with you."

The mourners respond appropriately while Randall Aiken abruptly hands the child, he has not willing let go of for three days, to her aunt.

Anger overrides grief as he strides toward the two men. When they see him, they stop to wait for Aiken to approach. The fewer people around the better for this conversation, so they pause beneath an old gnarled tree, half-dead from a long ago lightning strike.

The two men are very tall and resemble each other in a way that might make you think they are related. They wear similar polo shirts, the dark fabric stretched over hard muscles. The blue jeans look new and stiff, as though they aren't worn very often. Their hard, lean faces reveal nothing of what they are thinking. Their stance is anything but respectful mourners at a graveside. They are men of action. Alert, constantly assessing their surroundings and remaining still does not come easily.

"I suppose I should be impressed it took two of you to come for me," Randall Aiken spoke first, when he got close enough. His words grind out of his throat and shatter like shards of glass. The two men actually take a step back at the fury pointed their way.

"We both came because we need you to understand the importance what we have to tell you and remind you of your responsibilities."

"Bollocks!" Aiken spat, trying and failing to keep his voice low. "The only thing that's important right now is my little girl. I should knock you flat for interrupting Lara's funeral."

"Sorry about your wife."

Randall swiveled his head toward the second man with sandy brown hair and dark brown eyes. A sprinkling of freckles across the bridge of his nose is completely out of place on the lined face of man who's known only violence and loss.

"Are ye now?" Randall snorted a laugh that sounded more like a threat. "And I might believe you John, if I'd ever witnessed a moment of genuine emotion out of you."

"That's not fair or proper. It was the way we were raised… you were the one who left us." The other man said, stepping forward.

"Get to the truth of it, Jun. Halsey sent you here to do what? Drag me back? Have the pair of you come to get me feeling guilty enough to come crawlin'?"

John spoke again, "We need your help, Randall."

"Now then," Randall said loud enough to cause a few heads to turn in their direction, "the both of you clear out. I won't come with you and that's the end of it. I have a wee lass with no mother to take of care. This is my home and my family. If I hear the word mission out of either one of you it'll be a fight."

Jun raised his hands, "We're not the enemy, Randall. We need your help and…" He stopped talking and looked toward John. When John nodded, he continued, his voice low and intense. "Those ONI pricks know you're here and they're coming for you Randall. Seems they haven't gotten the full value of their investment out of you."

Jun managed to catch the fist Randall aimed at his face.

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><p>"We bow down before no man." Afterwards (the two Spartan from the entry above) when they came to the Persian King's presence, the guards ordered them to fall down in homage and when they refused, force was used, the Spartan's resisted and this was their reply to the King.<p> 


	2. Bow Down to No Man Chapter 2

TITLE: Bow Down to No Man

CHAPTER: 2

AN: Hello again. Thanks for dropping by. I know I'm taking a few liberties here, but I'm so intrigued by these characters and so disgusted with Nightfall, I feel the need to create a story.

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><p>The three men squared off and Jun, just to make a point, held on to Randall's fist for second longer than Randall allowed it. He sneered into Jun's face, "I told you two to clear out. Or shall we break all protocol and just have a go at it here on the grass. I'm sure no one'll notice."<p>

"Get a hold of yourself. There are larger forces at work here."

"There always are, John. Always are. Just so you know, I _protected _my little slice of humanity here on Vodin. They saved my life and I helped them rebuild their community and made a home here for myself. And. I. am. not. leaving."

Jun threw up his hands with an impatient gesture. "We know the story. Covenant orbital battle. You fell from one of the planet's skyhooks into Vodin's atmosphere, plunged to the surface. Managed to survive by landing in one of the colony's oceans. Nice story. Just please spare us the romantics."

"Jun, you son-of-a-bitch, I'll dig you a grave with my own hands. You're about two words shy of calling me out as a traitor." Randall's hands closed into fists and the sound his anger drew the attention of the mourners just leaving for their vehicles.

"I'll call you a coward, too. Hiding behind the skirts of a wife and these people. I may not know everything about your kind of Spartans, but I know," he waved his hand toward the staring crowd, "this wasn't a part of your training."

John-117 moved between the two men. Someone around here needed to act like an adult. Why the fuck did it always, turn out to be him? These Spartan IIIs were nothing but a wild bunch, intent on kill numbers and showing off. They were, in his opinion, out of control and no good would come of them. Randall-037? A good man in a bad situation. Had no one really thought to go looking for him in ten years? No Spartan ever dies. Bullshit. That was just more of Halsey's propaganda.

A sound no human ear could hear vibrated the air molecules and parted the air between the men drawing them away from each other and turning their attention to the tree trunk. Silent and deadly, a well-placed shot had impacted the tree dead center. The only evidence was the smoking hole in the dead wood.

"Randall?" His brother- in-law called him from the vehicle. "Coming? Nat's in the car with us."

Behind the Spartans, the dry timber burst into flame. The old tree went up like a torch _and_ an easily spotted target. Another shot exploded into the pile of dirt next to Lara's coffin. All around them screams ripped the through the air. Ten years was not enough time to forget a Covenant invasion. Panic drove them to run not just for cover, but also for their lives.

The priest shouted for them to stay away from their vehicles and get into the trees. Their spiritual leader since that fateful attack he was one among many who held the survivors together and helped form a new community. His strong and persuasive voice managed to turn them from the parking area toward the tree line.

The second shot landed just close enough to the vehicle, where his daughter slept in her car seat, to make a point.

Jun and John rolled away from the tree, while Randall sprinted toward the car. With Spartan speed and a father's love pushing him on he managed to grab his daughter, slide across the back seat and out the other door. Tucking her against his chest, he rolled down the short slope and away from the car. He called to his brother-in-law, but the man was frozen with fear and surprise.

"Take care of that little girl, Randall!" He watched his brother-in-law, a man he knew as a friend and loved like a brother stand tall. And realized it wasn't fear at all, when the man dropped himself into the car and sped away, churning grass and mud beneath the wheels. He didn't get far.

The infant wailed in protest.

The third shot hit the car in the fuel tank and Randall dropped his head and tucked his body around his screaming daughter. A ball of heated gas roared across the Spartan burning the shirt off his back. The four-foot dip in the lawn saved him and only the thought of keeping his daughter safe kept him from screaming.

200 yards away, Lieutenant Jameson Locke swore and aimed his weapon into the panicked crowd. If he couldn't get the Spartan, he'd take out a few more of his so-called family. That should bring him out of hiding. The other two Spartans had disappeared and the young lieutenant was under no illusions that he'd see them again. That was okay. His real target was Randall-037.

His orders, signed by Halsey herself, were explicit. Retrieve the renegade Spartan Randall-037. MIA for the last decade, he'd finally surfaced after the planet Vodin recovered enough to contact the other colonies.

Locke adjusted his scope and noticed a man pointing toward the wooded area, east of the graveyard. Dressed all in black, Locke remembered watching the man speak at the funeral ceremony. Keeping the chaos churned up would help Locke locate the Spartan.

A breath, a squeeze of the trigger and the man clad in black dropped silently to the ground, only the red cloud where his head had been a sign that he'd been standing there at all.

Now, Locke could hear the screaming as it rolled across the emerald grass toward his location. His Spotter chuckled in admiration, "Helluva shot, LT."

"Couldn't have made it without you, Third. We work well together. Let's pick up the pace and call in the rest of the team. Time to move in for the pickup."

"Aye, sir." While the Petty Officer Third Class, Alistair Bov Estrinmade the call, Jameson Locke watched for his target moving through the crowd. It's what he'd do. Try and hide himself among the panicking crowd. But hiding a 6'7" frame wasn't so easy.

And there he was!

Locke followed Randall-037 through his scope, moving through the crowd staying low and darting into the trees. The lieutenant, with higher aspirations than sniper specialist took his time loading the tranquilizer bullet into his rifle. Catching this prize would mean, at the very least, a field promotion. He'd make sure his Spotter came along for the ride. He was a good man and someone he's learned to trust. And trust didn't come easy to a man like Jameson Locke.

A skinny boy of eight, covered in lice, plucked off the inner city streets of Jericho VII. Arrested by the local militia on a backward planet on an equally backward edge of the galaxy, for stealing food from a street vendor and arrested. The vendor had seen something in the boy and paid his bail. What awaited the child in prison was far worse than anything he might face in the street including starving to death.

The young boy was bright enough to understand the man had saved his life. He worked hard and never missed a day of school. On his seventeenth birthday, he left for college. No one was prouder than the street vendor was. But pride blinded him from the truth about Jameson Locke. The street had left its mark on the bright young man long before he'd learned to eat right and do well in school. A cruel streak burned into his skin by long lonely nights on the street, learning how to survive and that cruelty could get you what you wanted.

After college, the military beckoned. They offered the bright young black man, with stellar grades, not only a commission, but a chance at qualifying for a secret branch of the UNSC. The mystery of it and the idea he could qualify for something special, something no one else could achieve drove him to accept the offer.

Locke's attention turned back to the Spartan when he made the mistake of standing upright. The man had his back to him, but he could plainly see the baby in his arms and the black suit jacket.

Locke watched the Spartan take off running. Of course, he'd try to save the crowd by drawing fire. He smiled like a predatory wolf heading toward its prey. It's a smile he rarely allowed himself, but this was special. When the Spartan was approximately 300 yards from his position, Locke took a long breath… might as well have something to brag about.

"Freak," Locke whispered and squeezed the trigger gently.

The tranquilizer missile hit the Spartan squarely in the back of his leg, where it could explode most efficiently into his bloodstream. Nice shot, he thought as his muscles responded by locking up. He dropped to his knees. The bundle rolled away from him. Then he fell headlong his arms outstretched, reaching… the spring sun dimmed and went out.


End file.
